


Whiskey in your Eyes

by SageMasterofSass



Category: Whyborne and Griffin - Jordan L. Hawk
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, amnesia!fic, multi-chapter, or roughly about that time, set after the events of Fallow, slightly offended Whyborne's tag isn't his full name
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SageMasterofSass/pseuds/SageMasterofSass
Summary: Just because he can't remember you doesn't mean he doesn't love you, or never will love you again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever Whyborne fic! Written mostly out of self-interest b/c it's not like any of my friends read this series, and the fandom is pretty tiny. Still. I adore it, so have a shitty amnesia trope fic.

Is there anything worse than the smell of hospitals? Antiseptic and bleach and _death_.

Percival Endicott Whyborne stares listlessly at the somber but hopeful Get Well Soon! card on the bedside table, stood proudly next to a vase of bright yellow daises. Somehow their cheerful color only serves to make the room feel more drab and depressing than ever, but both card and flowers are a gift from Christine and Iskander (probably more Iskander than anything, Christine hates ‘impractical’ gifts) and it’d be rude to just toss them out. Even if it does feel like they’re taunting him.

He sighs and gently squeezes the oh so familiar fingers caught between his own.

At the very least his family name and wealth got them a private room, so they aren’t forced to share space with other people separated only by flimsy curtains. But it’s impersonal and white and just so…hospital like. The chair Whyborne has been sitting in the past two days is uncomfortable as all hell and his butt repeatedly falls asleep.

Even worse are the crisp, stark sheets, the way they seem to suck all the color out of Griffin’s skin leaving him pale and sallow. His normally golden hair is limp and greasy against the pillow, chapped lips parted slightly as he breathes slowly and evenly. After spending years with the man, Whyborne knows what he looks like when he’s asleep, knows the shifts in his breathing, the way he rolls over in the middle of the night, the soft murmurs under his breath. Those are all comfortable and familiar, but Griffin is deathly still in the bed. He hasn’t twitched once.

It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

And Whyborne can’t help but feel a little guilty. The accident hadn’t been his fault entirely but, well, he had been the one to distract Griffin in the first place.

A couple days ago the weather had been really nice, so Griffin had decided to open up the windows and do some of the housework that had been neglected lately. On his list of chores had been cleaning the gutters. And since it had been such a pretty day, and since it was one of his rare days off, Whyborne had accompanied his husband outside, claiming a comfortable spot on the porch to relax and read and only stare at Griffin and the flexing of his muscles beneath his thin white shirt _sometimes._

For the most part they’d been quiet, though they spoke idly every once in a while. And then Whyborne had made some inane comment and Griffin had started laughing and…well, he’d fallen to put it shortly, the ladder tipping back underneath his rocking weight.

He’d hit the ground with a sickening _thud_ , Whyborne calling his name even as he had raced to Griffin’s side. At the very least Griffin had remained awake long enough that Whyborne had managed to get him to the hospital without too much trouble, but he’d been terrifyingly disoriented, stumbling, slurring, unable to focus. He’d collapsed in the lobby of the hospital and hasn’t moved since.

Their lives are dangerous and on occasion horrifying to boot, tangling the way they do with the supernatural. It doesn’t help Whyborne is himself supernatural, and his very nature more often than not invites disastrous things into their lives.

The irony of the matter is though, that the thing to finally land one of them in the hospital is just so perfectly _mundane._

Housework. Of all things.

Whyborne groans and readjusts his weight in the uncomfortable chair.  

Faintly, the hand tangled up with his begins to move.

Maybe he should just go home for the night…

Another twitch.

He really does miss their bed.

Fingers flexing.

But it feels wrong to just abandon Griffin like that.

The hand squeezes his own, gently, so gently, like an accident, and Whyborne shoots upright immediately. He can’t help but squeeze back, to feel those fingers gripping him in return, and it’s such a relief that a choked sob catches in his throat.

Behind his lids, Griffin’s eyes are moving. Slow, restless twitches, but moving nonetheless. And even as Whyborne watches, those familiar blonde lashes begin to flutter.

“Griffin?” It’s a breath of a word and Whyborne can’t help but clutch his husband’s hand with both of his own now, watching those eyes slowly blink open, and then come to focus on him.

In the sterile blandness of the hospital, Griffin’s irises are dull and lifeless. A monotone green with none of the russet or blue strands that Whyborne is so used to.

He blinks, the process taking far too long for Whyborne’s liking, then grins. Whyborne wants to smile back but there’s something…it’s not…

Griffin parts his lips, closes, tongue flicking out to wet the unused flesh. When he tries again, his voice comes out soft and raspy.

“Who are you?”

oOo

Temporary amnesia. Caused by head trauma. No telling. Lost memories. Nothing we can do. Physically healthy. No telling. Brain trauma. Minor concussion. Jogging his memory.

Whyborne rubs at his temples, eyes clenched shut tight against the persistent headache that hasn’t left him alone since Griffin awoke.

God, Griffin.

It hadn’t taken long for the private room to fill with nurses, amongst them the man who seems to have taken over as Griffin’s primary doctor. They’d hemmed and hawed, run a few tests, poked around a little bit, just generally taking up space and being noisy and preventing Whyborne from talking to, or even really getting a good look at his husband. Eventually the doctor had led Whyborne out and had a quiet, serious conversation with him in the hall.

It had ultimately come down to the fact that the hospital wanted to keep Griffin for another night, just to be sure he wasn’t going to fall back asleep and not wake up again. But he’d be free to go in the morning because there really wasn’t anything else they could do for him. He had a bit of a bump on the back of his head, a few bruises here and there, and of course the amnesia. But other than that he was perfectly fine.

Perfectly fine.

Like the fact that he’s missing possibly _years_ of his memory is fine. And that’s the thing too, they don’t even know the extent of his amnesia, haven’t bothered trying to test him on that front other than a few simple questions. It’s dangerous they say. They’d rather leave it to him they say. Just be careful, they say, learning too much too quickly could shock him and cause more damage to his mind.

There’s no place to sit out in the hall, so Whyborne is just leaned against one of the tile walls, growing more and more frustrated by the second. By the time the last of the nurses filter out of Griffin’s room, he’s fit to burst. He’s sleep deprived, anxious, and the life of his loved on is on the line here damnit.

But all of that emotion drains from him so suddenly when he enters the room again that he’s left dizzy and breathless.

It’s that impersonal smile again. Those flat green eyes. The impersonation of his husband without Griffin really being there.

God, is this what it was like for Griffin when Bradley was wearing Whyborne’s skin? Had he seen the body, the hair and eyes and facial features, and just _known_? Known it was wrong, that the insides weren’t right, a puppet with the wrong hand pulling its strings, even if the puppet itself was the same.

Of course, this isn’t exactly the same. Griffin is still himself. He just also…isn’t. At the same time.

“Hi,” Whyborne tries, voice coming out rather shakily as he reclaims his seat by the bed.

It feels too close now, too intimate, but he can’t bring himself to move it.

“Hello,” is Griffin’s curt response. He seems shaken, slightly out of it. Probably everything is rather confusing for him right now, but Whyborne intends to try and help with that.

But where to begin?

“So you don’t…you don’t remember who I am?”

Immediately Griffin’s brow furrows, the lines deep and upsetting. “The nurses say you’re my roommate and a close friend,” he murmurs after a moment, and Whyborne can tell that this is taxing him. That he doesn’t like not remembering. But his features relax after a moment; if it’s a focused action or just resignation, Whyborne can’t tell.

“Er, yes, that’s correct. For the most part.” One _could_ call them roommates after all, even if they’re also so much more than that. “Do you know how much you’re, uh, missing exactly?”

At that, Griffin’s smile turns rueful. “How am I supposed to know what I’m missing if I can’t remember it?”

Whyborne feels his face go hot with embarrassment. Right. Well that does pose a bit of a problem, but he can do this. He’s got to be of some help, somehow. “Well,” he tries, attempting not to stutter over the word. God it’s been ages since he’s acted this foolishly around Griffin. It’s like their first meeting all over again. “What’s the last thing you remember then?”

“The doctor asked me that too.” His grin is gone, face creased once more. “The last place I remember being is in my office at the Pinkerton’s. Glen, my partner, though I suppose you must know that, and I were going over some paperwork.”

Oh no. This is not good, so not good.

“Speaking of him, where is Glen?”

Damn.

Whyborne clears his throat uncomfortably, shifting where he sits in the too-hard chair. “Glen’s…not here,” he settles on eventually, unable to meet Griffin’s eyes. But he knows it’s a tell, and he knows that Griffin can sense that something is wrong.

“What happened?” he asks, voice a little sharper. “They wouldn’t tell me. They said you would take care of filling me in. Was Glen involved as well? Was it a case?”

Does he really not remember that horrible case? The one that caused Glen’s death, the one that had him locked away in a mental asylum only to face horrendous abuse? Evidently not.

“No, not quite.”

Silence. Whyborne’s risks moving his gaze from where it had fallen to his shoes, only to find Griffin’s eyes locked on him, intense. There’s distrust there, not strong, but it’s enough to feel like a punch to the gut. He’s making a mess of this, isn’t he?

Sighing, he gathers himself. “It wasn’t a case,” Whyborne declares softly, trying to keep his voice calm and steady. “It was an accident. You were doing housework. You fell. You hit your head.” How much is too much? He doesn’t want to upset Griffin or mess with his healing, but there are some things he just won’t be able to keep from his husband.

“You haven’t…you haven’t seen Glen in years. He’s gone, and you’ve moved on from the Pinkertons. You’re not even in Seattle anymore.”

Rather than finding the information upsetting, like Whyborne though he might, it seems to settle Griffin in a way. He breathes out slowly through his nose, closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them they’re clear and it’s obvious he’s gathered himself and is trying to piece the few facts he has into a coherent picture.

“If we’re not in Seattle,” he says after a while, “then where are we?”

That’s easy enough at least. “Widdershins, Massachusetts.”

Faintly, Whyborne had had some hope that maybe the town’s name would trigger something in his husband, call upon the those memories of their years here together, or perhaps Whyborne’s intimate tie to it.

But Griffin just blinks and says, “Never heard of it.”

Whyborne withholds a sigh, but just barely. “You saw a mention of it in a newspaper and decided it would be as good a place as any to start anew.”

“Start anew?”

Damn.

A knock at the door saves him from trying to explain that. Both men turn to look at Christine and Iskander, the later with a cheerful grin and the former looking constrained but happy nonetheless to see them.

“Well,” Christine says briskly, not waiting to be invited inside as she sweeps into the room, “glad to see you’ve found your head and stopped lazing about, Griffin.”

Iskander follows, looking slightly sorry for Christine and her actions but not terribly so. “What she means is that we’re both glad to see you awake, of course.”

Looking amused Griffin echoes, “Of course.”

And Whyborne sits there through it all feeling uncomfortable, spine too rigid, the air around him too warm. He’d penned their friends earlier, right after Griffin had awoken, but he hadn’t mentioned the fact that there were complications, or that his husband was going to be remaining in the hospital for another night.

Would it be too awkward to take them out of the room to try and talk to them alone? Probably. But it also doesn’t feel like a conversation they should be having in front of Griffin either. Not while he’s like this at least.

“Er, hello. Christine, Iskander,” he tries. Something in his voice must give him away because Christine frowns  at him, her brow drawn, and Iskander cocks his head to the side curiously.

“What’s the matter, old fellow?” Iskander asks, and Whyborne can’t help the way his gaze flickers to Griffin.

Immediately both guests are staring at Griffin again, looking more closely this time like they might be able to discern the predicament through sight alone. Griffin just shrugs.

“He has amnesia,” Whyborne tries to supply, and finds everyone in the room suddenly staring at him again. “He, um, h-has a bump on the back of his head but physically he’s fine otherwise. He just, er-“

With a huff Christine cuts him off. “Yes, has amnesia, so you said.” She turns to Griffin with her hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised. “So, how much of your memory are you missing then? What can’t you remember?”

Thankfully, Griffin still looks rather amused with everything. His lips are tilted up in a little smirk and he seems to be enjoying himself despite the circumstances. “Well for one,” he says, “I have no idea who any of you are.”

Oh hell. Whyborne had even known he would need to introduce himself but he’d still failed to do so.

For their parts Christine and Iskander look a little dumbstruck, so Whyborne doesn’t feel quite so bad if they didn’t even consider that they’d need to introduce themselves. They recover fairly quickly though.

“Dr. Christine Putnam-Barnett,” Christine says, one arm moving like she’s going to extend her hand. At the last second she seems to reconsider it, and the arm falls back to her side rather lamely. “I’m Whyborne’s best friend. That’s how you and I met.”

“Iskander Barnett,” her husband says in his pleasant accent. “We met in Egypt when you accompanied Whyborne on a trip there.”

At that Griffin’s eyebrows go way up. “Egypt?” he asks incredulously. “What on earth were we doing there?”

“Er, it’s complicated,” Whyborne hedges, then remembers that he hasn’t introduced himself either. It feels incredibly awkward but he offers a quiet, “and I’m Dr. Percival Endicott Whyborne. You just call me Whyborne though.” Or Ival, when they’re alone or Griffin is feeling particularly fond or concerned, but that’s probably not the best thing to bring up right now.

“I figured,” Griffin says lightly, almost teasingly. Almost but not quite. The distance he’s put between them is unbearable.

“So, since you’re all here would you mind catching me up on the last few years of my life?”

Whyborne, Christine, and Iskander all share a questioning glance, none of them quite sure how they should approach this issue. But then Christine takes a deep breath and starts the story, and the other two fall into it as well, Whyborne taking over since he and Griffin have spent the most time together, and the other two filling in where they can.

It takes a couple of hours in all, especially with the three of them picking over certain parts of the tale so as not to shock or disturb Griffin. They keep the supernatural to a minimum, his and Whyborne’s relationship even smaller, and Glen and Griffin’s father’s deaths the quietest. It’s not exactly a pleasant affair, and they’re all obviously burnt out by the end of it, except for maybe Iskander because he didn’t really need to hop in until the end there.

Griffin is quiet after, staring into space, and Whyborne just wants to sleep.

“I think visiting hours are about over,” Christine offers helpfully, one solid hand settling on Whyborne’s shoulder. He wants to lean into it but refrains, and after a quick goodbye the three move quietly into the hall, shutting the hospital room door behind them.

They stand there for a moment, nobody speaking, before Whyborne sighs and drags his palms slowly down his face. “What am I going to do?” he murmurs into his fingers, breath hitching even as he tries to hold back his frustration and uncertainty.

Christine’s hand finds his shoulder again, squeezing a touch too hard. “One day at a time,” she tells him. “Just take it one day at a time.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo guess who's back in black a year and a half later
> 
> but dev, why now? you may ask. and i'll say that today I got to have lunch with Jordan L Hawk and it was amazing and my love for all things W&G was entirely renewed. also they were super supportive and told me to keep working on this so like. yeah. sidenote i was entirely star struck and spent most of the lunch not talking much b ut it was still so great

Early morning light is starting to filter in through the window, but Whyborne shuts his eyes against it, trying to play ignorant for a while longer. He doesn’t want to get up and deal with anything yet.

He rolls over and instantly regrets the movement. The bed feels weird without Griffin in it, empty. There’s no trace of him, no indent on the pillow, no clothes on the floor, his scent isn’t even on the sheets because they’ve been washed too recently. It feels wrong, empty, and makes Whyborne ache all over again.

Late yesterday afternoon, after waiting around for hours, Griffin had finally been released from the hospital. They’d taken a cab home, mostly silent except for idle conversation the whole way there.

Whyborne had given his husband a quick tour of their home, and hadn’t that been strange, before claiming a headache and slinking off to his room. Despite it being only early evening at that point, he hadn’t had any issues falling asleep, mainly because he hadn’t slept the night after Griffin had woken up, too anxious and upset to do anything but toss and turn in their bed across the hall. Not that this isn’t their bed too but, well, they’ve always preferred the one in Griffin’s room. It’s where they…

No, he needs to stop thinking that way. Bringing up old memories right now will do nothing but hurt him, and he needs to be strong. For Griffin. But mostly for himself.

There comes a faint shuffling of noise from the floor below, probably Griffin putting together breakfast for himself and it draws Whyborne from his thoughts. Were this an ordinary day, he would get up and pull on his dressing gown, go downstairs, kiss his husband, and they’d have a pleasant morning together in the kitchen before they both go off on their separate business.

But this isn’t a normal day.

A burning desire to see his husband whole and well duels with the need not to face that cool, polite smile again, the likes of which he hasn’t seen pointed at him since the very first day they met. Even then Griffin had been warmer than he is now.

But eventually Whyborne drags himself out of his lonely bed, pulling on his clothes with little energy and giving only the barest attention to a hasty shave.

Saul greets him on the stairs down, meowing softly at him and butting his head against Whyborne’s shin. He pauses to pet the orange tabby then continues down, Saul following in his footsteps. It’s unusual for the cat not to be in the kitchen, hiding under the table or twining around Griffin’s ankles in an attempt to beg for food.

Maybe he can tell something is off too, though.

When Whyborne enters, Griffin is at their small table, poking idly at a bowl of cold cereal while he peruses the newspaper. He glances up though, gives Whyborne that terrible, distant smile, and offers a, “Good morning.”

“Er, good morning,” Whyborne responds. Everything feels wrong, like every piece of furniture and every dish in the room is two inches to the left of where it should be and it’s making him twitchy, uncomfortable.

If Griffin notices his discomfort, he doesn’t comment or acknowledge it in any way.

Saul makes himself comfortable right on top of Whyborne’s feet, purring softly and rubbing his face against Whyborne’s legs. Perhaps trying to comfort? 

Griffin’s reaction is instant. His face goes soft and his lips tilt up in a happy little small. “Saul,” he says, reaching down under the table to scratch the top of the tabby’s head. Saul rumbles happily and leans into the touch, quick to abandon Whyborne’s feet as his perch and winds himself around Griffin’s shins instead.

It’s a perfectly normal interaction, and it actually takes Whyborne a moment to realize what’s wrong with it. Because Griffin didn’t take Saul in until long after he’d moved to Widdershins in the first place.  

When Griffin sits up again, smiling and relaxed, he must catch Whyborne’s wide-eyed stare immediately because he goes still and quiet. “What?” he asks. “What’s the matter?”

Whyborne shakes his head, not a denial but an attempt to get rid of his stiffness and shock. “Sorry,” he says, “I just uh, you remembered. Saul, that is.”

It takes a moment for the realization to reach Griffin as well, but his beautiful eyes go wide as well, no longer flat and dull like they were in the hospital room but full of color and life. “I did!” he exclaims. “I did remember him, you didn’t mention his name at all yesterday!”

__Why Saul? Why not me?_ _

It’s an unwelcome thought, one Whyborne makes sure doesn’t stand out on his face. But it’s a legitimate one nonetheless. Their tabby cat jogs Griffin’s memory, but not his own husband?

“Anything else coming to you?” he asks hopefully.

Griffin seems to consider it for a second, then shrugs nonchalantly. “Not really, no. Just little things about Saul.” He leans down to pet the cat again, cooing softly to the fat old tabby, and Whyborne tries not to sulk across the table.

oOo

“I just don’t understand it,” Whyborne laments, later that day. He’s got one cheek pressed to the cool wood of his desk, papers and books pushed aside to make room for his pouting. Not like he was really getting anything done anyways, what with the disarray his thoughts are in.

Nearby Christine huffs, arms crossed over her chest. She’d given him a few moments to pity himself but apparently those moments are up because she none too gently pulls on his collar and forces him upright. Then she plops down in the chair across from him, eyes intent as she stares him down.

“Now listen here,” she says evenly. “What happened was an accident. A tragic accident, but an accident nonetheless. Nobody can control what’s happening in Griffin’s mind, not even himself. So what he remembered the freaking cat before he remembered you. That doesn’t mean he loves or cares for you any less, it just means the cat happened to pop up first. If anything you should be happy; it makes sense the little useless things would come back before the important ones. And I imagine you’re the most important thing to happen to him in the past decade.”

Despite himself, her words are rather bracing. He feels warmed by them and even more so by the faint note of distaste on her face, like she’s glad to be helping him but she wishes it were in a less emotional capacity. It’s just so Christine.

Whyborne sighs and rubs one palm over his face. “You’re right,” he says, and Christine sniffs imperiously.

“Of course I am.”

She stands again, pushing a thin packet of papers towards him from where she’d dropped them on the edge of the desk earlier. “And now that that’s out of the way, maybe you can actually get some work done.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” he says, smiling ruefully. Despite having been here for several hours he hasn’t gotten a single thing done, much less the translations she’d brought him a while back. Everything’s just been so busy what with the accident, he really can’t afford to fall even more behind.

“I’ll be by to pick them up later,” Christine informs him, turning to leave. But Whyborne jumps up before she can reach the door, grabbing one of her arms to keep her in place. She turns back to him, one eyebrow raised expectantly and he fumbles for his words for a moment.

“Thanks,” he finally settles on. “Thank you. For that.”

She visibly softens around the edges, even as she straightens her spine. “Well somebody had to knock you out of that depressed stupor.”

With that, Christine takes her leave, and Whyborne returns to his desk. Hopefully, he can get something done now.

oOo

Whyborne hovers outside his front door, unsure and uncomfortable as he stares at the eaves. The sun has set and a mild chill is setting in, but still, he hovers. There’s a light on in the kitchen, he can see the glow through the window, but the study is all lit up as well. Going inside to find Griffin sitting in his chair by the fire, reading or drinking or even just petting Saul, when that room has always been something of a sanctuary for them…

Drawing a deep breath in and letting it out slowly, Whyborne finally opens the door.

Downstairs is silent, and there comes no greeting or acknowledgment from upstairs. Which is…fine. It’s fine. Griffin is dealing with a lot right now.

Whyborne sheds his outer coat and wanders into the kitchen. Almost immediately he wants to kick himself. Of course there wouldn’t be dinner waiting for him. Roommates aren’t really expected to cook for each other, or even really eat together, and Griffin barely seems to know him.

Guess its beans out of the can, then.

When he’s done with his sad little dinner, he wanders upstairs and ends up pausing in the doorway of the study, unable to help himself. Even now Griffin has that pull on him.

The man is sat at his desk, flipping through notes that Whyborne knows are from old cases. He hopes there’s nothing too supernatural in them, mostly because he’s still not sure how to broach that particular subject. How do you convince someone that a whole other world exists just beneath, or maybe right alongside, your own? He could do a few spells maybe, but he doesn’t want to risk scaring Griffin off…or something.

“Oh, you’re home.”

Whyborne is startled out of his thoughts by the warm voice, and smiles tentatively back when Griffin smiles brightly at him. It’s not as cold as before, but still achingly distant.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” Griffin continues, slipping several papers back into a folder and then standing from the desk.

“It’s, er, fine.” What does he do? What does he say? What casual after-work conversation can you possibly have with the spouse that doesn’t remember you?

“I spent most of today wandering around the house and reading old notes, trying to jog my memory,” Griffin says conversationally, like Whyborne isn’t a terrible, awkward man who won’t even meet his eyes.

It’s stupid for the comment to make Whyborne hopeful, but he still ends up asking, “Did you uh, remember anything then?”

“A few things.” It’s vague, coy almost, as Griffin props his hip against his desk. “Quite a few things, actually. But I’m sure you’re interested in probing to see exactly how much memory I’m missing, if I’ve guessed correctly about the closeness of our relationship.” The last is said with an eyebrow raise, a little twitch of Griffin’s lip that’s slightly salacious.

How much has he guessed, how much does he know? It’s not like they keep their relationship out in the open. Though there are a few things in their home that suggest a certain level of closeness, none of it is condemning lest it end up in the wrong hands and be used against them. Except, maybe, that terrible Valentine’s day card from years ago, or the picture of them together on the pier. But both of those are sequestered away in spare drawers, out of view of the wandering eye.

Still, Whyborne’s heart starts to beat a little faster, his palms sweating. Could it be possible? But if Griffin had truly remembered, wouldn’t he have met Whyborne at the door as soon as he was home, waiting with open arms and warm words?

“It was mostly a few glimpses of skin and sweat that I caught, but I daresay you are much more than meets the eye, Percival.”

Whyborne cringes, from the words, from the name he hates to be called, but mostly from that familiar look in Griffin’s eyes, the cant of his hips, his full lips and their curve. All his previous hope shrivels up and dies in his chest, a heavy, cool weight.

The pose, the look, they’re all meant to be suggestive but it’s just a slap in the face for Whyborne. He doesn’t want this. It feels perverse, lust without that emotional connection he’s come to expect and adore so much. And yet it’s also so tempting in a horrible way, the idea of having at least __part__ of his husband, of their relationship, back.

Griffin, always perceptive, frowns. “I’m sorry,” he says, clearly back tracking as he pulls his weight from the desk, spine straightening and arms coming across his chest. “Perhaps I was too presumptive.”

“It’s fine,” Whyborne chokes, even though it’s not. It’s not fine at all. He flees the room, locking the bedroom door behind him, and tries not to let his heart break any further.  

**Author's Note:**

> I take requests on my [tumblr](http://scribespirare.tumblr.com/). Also feel free just to drop by and talk W&G with me. Seriously none of my friends read it but I love the series so much weeps


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